


It is So Quite New a Thing

by an_ardent_rain



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Frank POV, Lingerie, Minor Violence, Post-Season/Series 02, Slow Burn, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_ardent_rain/pseuds/an_ardent_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realizes, as he is about to order, that there is one other thing he has besides his grief and his anger and his never-ending war. That there is something that helps him remember, that reminds him who he used to be.  He orders a second cup to go and writes "Page" in blocky letters on the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It is So Quite New a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> _i like my body when it is with your_  
>  body. It is so quite new a thing.  
> Muscles better and nerves more.  
> i like your body. i like what it does,  
> i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
> of your body and its bones,and the trembling  
> -firm-smooth ness and which i will  
> again and again and again  
> kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
> i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz  
> of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes  
> over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
> 
>  
> 
> _and possibly i like the thrill_
> 
>  
> 
> _of under me you so quite new_  
>  -e.e. cummings
> 
> I'm SO EXCITED about this story, I've had it written for... a long while, but I've been sitting on it trying to get it finished. I'd like to give a HUUUUUUUUUUGE thanks to [calie-day](http://calie-day.tumblr.com) on tumblr who was kind enough to beta this chapter for me. You did an awesome job, thanks again! Anyway. As you might have guessed from the title, and the poem it came from, I wrote this fic for A Reason. And that reason was gettin' it on. Um. That doesn't actually happen this chapter! See more notes at the bottom, okay bye!

There is an article in the _Bulletin_ with the byline _Karen Page,_ detailing the latest group of drug dealing shitbags he’d had dealings with.  No mention is made of The Punisher, despite there being more than one suspicious death.  It’s coincidence, he knows - they’d been making so much noise it would have been more suspicious if they hadn’t gotten on her radar, but Frank can’t help the little pull of apprehension he feels when he sees that.  He’d grabbed a newspaper when he’d grabbed a coffee, and he reads it under an awning on a gray, drizzly morning.  Rain drips through a hole, steadily, onto the toe of his boot.  

 

It’s a good article, calling out respected international businessman Dimitri Sark on his ties to a number of illicit activities, including drugs.  Scathing. Well-researched. He’d be impressed if it hadn’t been what he’d expected of her.  But it also means that the people she’s got on her radar probably have her on theirs, and they’re not nearly as inclined as she is to limit their retaliation to some hard truths and pretty words.

 

Frank folds the paper under his arm and drinks his coffee as he watches the passerby.  There’s a tall man in a trenchcoat with his collar pulled up to his cheek and his hands stuffed into his pocket, and then a petite woman in a skirt and black stockings holding an umbrella patterned with pastel flowers.  The sidewalk has puddles from the rain and a little boy stomps in every one in dinosaur patterned boots as he clings to his father’s hand. The Punisher’s work keeps them safe when he does what he does, so it’s only fair, Frank thinks, to make sure Miss Page is safe, too.  He crushes his cup in his fist and tosses it in the garbage bin beside him. He pulls his cap lower, and pulls up the hood of his jacket.  Seems like his evening just got booked up.

 

* * *

 

 

He stands in front of her apartment door the next morning with a list of names and a scrawled note that says “Look after yourself; they’ll be coming for you.”  It’s maybe more ominous than he means it to be, on second reading.  He wishes he had the pen he’d used to write it with him to sign it or add something so she’d know who it was from.  Chances are she will anyway, she’s sharp, but there’s no point scaring her if he doesn’t need to.  He also realizes that the only thing he has to stick it to her door is a knife - and while effective, that would raise the threat level from “mildly ominous” to “watch out for your damn life.”  And she probably wouldn’t give him back the knife anyway.  He should have thought to buy some fucking tape.

 

Well.  It’s gross but he has some gum in a coat pocket, he’s pretty sure.  He digs around and sure enough there’s a little half-crushed pack of Juicy Fruit with two pieces in it.  He pulls one out and balls up the wrapper, then pops it into his mouth to get it wet and sticky.  He chews for a few seconds - and he realizes he’s hungry as hell, he can’t remember the last time he’d eaten - and is sticking a finger in his mouth to fish it out when her door swings open.

 

Karen Page stands in the doorframe, wearing the sourest look he’s ever seen. She keeps the door close to her so he can’t see into the apartment. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks.  She’s in pajamas, wearing blue pants with little white polka dots and a baseball tee with a faded logo.  Her eyes are hard and her lip trembles.  “What’s _The Punisher_ doing outside my door?”

 

Her tone is mocking and he gives her a dark smile, his finger still in his mouth.  He sucks the gum off the tip and pulls it out. Her eyes narrow at the wet pop it makes.  “Morning to you, too, ma’am.  Would have brought coffee if I’d known you’d be up this early.”

 

She crosses her arms and leans her hip against the doorframe.  “Leave,” she says.

 

“Had this,” he says, holding up the note.  “Was going to leave it on your door, but now that you’re here…”  He folds it into quarters.  “I saw the article you wrote, and I bet Sark’s men saw it, too.”

 

“And you came all the way to my apartment to tell me that some people can read?”

 

He taps the note against his forehead.  “To bring you this.”  He holds it out to her and after a second of hesitation, she takes it.  Her body language is still closed-off, wary, but she takes her eyes off him long enough to read it.  He could have called her, he realizes.  He still has her number from his trial. “These are the men I hadn’t killed yet who might come after you.  Got the list from a few of their friends. Heard enough to know you made ‘em angry, that they want to make an example out of you, but I don’t know anything more than that.”

 

Her eyes go wide.  “And you were… warning me?  Is that it?”

 

“Well.”  He wrinkles his nose and looks mock-thoughtfully around the hallway.  “I figured I’d feel pretty shitty if you got killed.”  Her eyes start to soften and that’s his cue to leave.  “Have a good morning, ma’am.”

 

She says something in response, under her breath, but he’s too far away then to make it out.

 

* * *

 

 

He keeps an eye on her apartment when he can.  He’s big enough that just seeing him lurking around scares away most would-be assailants, and the one guy that did seem interested in trying something got two black eyes and a broken arm for his trouble.  He could have killed him, but it was just a kid, one he didn’t recognize. Seemed as good a person as any to send a warning.

 

She figures out where he normally skulks, and two nights after he beat the shit out of that kid she brings him a cup of coffee.

 

It’s from a Starbucks, he notices, and the name written in thick black sharpie is “Karen”. Her name has a line through it though, and a little skull is drawn beside it. He takes a drink, long and satisfying, so dark it almost tastes like smoke. Then he taps the skull with his finger. “Think you’re cute, huh?”

 

Her smile comes easier now. “Blake Morris was found in this alley, his arm broken in three places. At the hospital he said he was attacked by the Punisher, though he had no idea what he’d done wrong. He only had a few priors for possession.”

 

“Wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am,” he says.

 

“He and two other members of his fraternity have been linked to Dimitri Sark’s operations. It looks like they got in over their heads, not realizing who they were dealing with. Morris pissed himself, he was so terrified. Looks like whoever he ran into scared him straight.” She adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

 

He makes a noise in his throat and shakes his head. “Damn shame when good boys like that get on the wrong side of the law.”

 

She scoffs and he smirks to himself behind his coffee. “I’m sure.” She watches him for another moment, gaze penetrating and sharp. He decides he can finish his coffee on the move.

 

“Goodnight, ma’am,” he says.

 

“Goodnight,” she says back, reflexively, her eyes dropping to stare at the ground. Then “A warning wasn’t enough?” She pauses, but not long enough for him to respond. “You’ve been looking out for me.”

 

He shifts, his shoulders rolling. “Yeah, I could have just warned you. But I could survive a knife wound, too. Doesn’t mean I go out of my way to get stabbed.”

 

She nods and lets out a long breath. “Right. Well, uh. Is this… all? Or is someone else coming after me?” She squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye.

 

A big hand rubs his jaw, stubble scraping his palm. “If I had to guess I’d say you’re good until the next time you piss somebody off.”

 

Her hands settle on her waist and one thin eyebrow raises. “Why do you assume there will be a next time?”

 

“You’re like a goddamn dog with a bone, Miss Page. Determined. Fuckin’ tenacious when you get the scent of something.” She looks at him with an expression he can’t read. “But uh. I’ll be around, if anyone does decide to try anything.” He wants to tell her it’s just a job, that she’s a loose end, but before he can she smiles.

 

Frank’s not used to being surprised, but the smile that breaks out on her face knocks him off balance a little. “You’ll be around?” she asks. “Some people would say that should scare me just as much.”

 

Hard to argue with the truth. So he shrugs one shoulder and says “You won’t even notice I’m around. I’ll be a ghost.”

 

“You’re not a ghost, Frank,” she says, too quick, her arms wrapping around herself.  Her brows furrow and she looks away from him.

 

Something he doesn’t quite recognize burns like acid in his throat, and for a moment he just stares at her as she looks down at the dirty ground. Then he says goodnight again, gruff, and doesn’t look back at her when he walks away.

 

* * *

 

There’s a rooftop with a good view of her apartment window on a nearby building, and Frank checks every so often to make sure no one’s up there watching her. It’s been more than two weeks since she called him by his name again, said he wasn’t a ghost, and he’s not sure he’s ready to see her. He sure as hell doesn’t want to talk to her, or even think about her really, so it’s easier just to compartmentalize, think about it like she’s just a mission. He still checks the _Bulletin_ , and he reads her next big piece - it’s a follow-up to her last one, about the arrest of Dimitri Sark after a large scale drug bust at his home.  Frank had hoped that he’d get to kill him, but Sark had been arrested almost as soon as his plane had landed from his vacation to the middle of who-the-fuck-cared, Europe.  Even though he hadn’t gotten to take him down, at least Sark was off the streets. That’s something.

 

But if anyone comes looking for revenge it also means the target that was on her back might be coming back.

 

Somebody breaks into her apartment one day while she’s at work.  He’s not there to stop it, and he has to remind himself it’s not his job to stop it.  She can take of herself and it’s not his goddamn --

 

As long as she’s _safe_ , it’s not his goddamn problem.  It might have nothing to do with the dirt she’s been digging up.  He meets up with her anyway.

 

“You’re good at finding me,” she says. “But I have no idea how the hell to find you.”  He’d waited until she’d left her office and asked her to grab some coffee at a nearby diner - not exactly top tier detective skills.

 

“Just lucky you didn’t decide to work late tonight,” he says.  “Felt enough like a creepy son of a bitch just waiting for you there, would have been worse if I’d had to wait hours.”

 

She smiles so wide she can’t hide it, even though she lifts up her mug to take a drink.  “Would you really have waited that long?” She asks, looking down at the table.  Her hair swings around her face and she’s still got that smile on.

 

“Hell no,” he says, tapping his finger against the table.  She doesn’t need to ever look that bright for him.  “Got a busy night later.”

 

That dims her smile and she sets down her coffee.  He’s finished his already but hers is still more than half full.  “You heard what happened, then. I’d guessed that’s why you wanted to meet.”

 

“Yeah, some fucker broke into your place.”  He picks up half of the sandwich he’d ordered and bites into it.  She watches his jaw flex as he chews.  It’s good - fresh tomato and crispy bacon and bread toasted just right.  Easier to focus on than her, than the anger he feels on her behalf.  Anger is almost all he feels now and it goes against every instinct to tamp it down.  “Police find out who?”

 

She shakes her head.  “No, not yet.  They think it was just a random burglary, though, probably someone who lives in the building.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I take it you don’t agree.”

 

He takes another bite.  “Pretty big coincidence.  That’s all.”

 

“Yeah.”  She combs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back.  “That’s what I thought, too.”

 

They eat in silence for a few minutes.  He’s got his BLT and she’s got a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup.  When she’s thinking, she dips the spoon in slow and sips from it.  “Well,” he says, as she wipes her mouth with a paper napkin.  He’s finished eating and he needs to go, so he lets himself ask the question he’s wanted to since he saw her.  “You’ll be fine.  Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” she agrees.  She pushes her hair behind her ears as he stands up.

 

He sticks some money under his plate and adjusts the cap he’s wearing.  “I’ll be around,” he says.  “Take care of yourself, ma’am.”

 

“You, too.”  She says.  Her hands are folded in her lap and she’s looking up at him with eyes so blue they burn.  “Take care of yourself, Frank.”  
  


* * *

 

He kills three men one night. They were three disgusting, drunken assholes who were chasing down an old man and a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.  He dispatches them quickly, three easy shots, and turns to look at the two who’d been their targets.  Both of them look terrified, almost as scared of Frank as they were of the men beating them.  He doesn’t need to explain anything and he’s not going to apologize for doing what needs to be done, for saving them, and he sure as hell doesn’t want a thank you, either.  The old man whispers to the girl in a language Frank can’t make out.  It’s soft and smooth, with round consonants that slide off his tongue.  The girl has big, round cheeks and liquid eyes, her hair cut in jagged edges around her face.  She nods and raises her arms.  The old man lifts her up, trembling, and doesn’t look back as he runs away.

 

The gunfire likely attracted attention, so Frank doesn’t linger.  It’s still early, and there’s the faint stir of feeling in the hollow of his gut.  Kids and dogs.  Hell.  He wants something to settle him, to drive out whatever restless feeling has lodged itself inside his chest.

 

He thinks about Karen Page.

 

He settles on the rooftop he’d scoped out earlier, with a big gun and a thermos of coffee.  Her lights are on and everything seems fine.  She walks by the window once, half-dressed, wearing a frilly white bra and a high-waisted gray skirt.  He curses to himself and glances away, hoping she puts something on.  It’s going to be hard as hell to watch her if he can’t actually look at her.

 

So instead he focuses on keeping an eye on the surrounding areas, making sure nothing seems suspicious or out of place.  Her lights turn off not long after that and he exhales, something going loose in him.  Nothing happens and he doesn’t expect anything to, but having a purpose, even for one night, gives him a heady, rough hewn adrenaline - killing bad guys so they can’t do bad is a hell of a principle, distilled into something simple and pure, but even if it makes him feel sane it doesn’t give him direction.  He likes knowing exactly where he’s aimed.  And right now, he’s aimed at anyone who tries to hurt Miss Page.

 

An hour passes, and nothing happens.  He’s gotten into a nice, steady headspace, focused only on watching and waiting.  It’s shattered, suddenly, by the sound of someone coming onto the roof up with him and a voice that says “Frank?  Are you up here?”

 

It’s Page, he recognizes the voice. It annoys him that she’s not even trying to keep quiet. He glances back at her out of the corner of his eye. She brushes off her upper thighs and then walks over to him, something in her other hand. She holds it out to him. It’s another cup of coffee - she’s crossed out her name again and drawn another skull, but this one has angry brows drawn over the eye sockets to look like it’s scowling. He huffs and takes it.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says. She sits down near him - close enough to talk quietly but generously on the side of polite distance.

 

“How’d you know I was here?” he asks.

 

“Well when you said you’d be around after the break-in, I figured that meant you’d be somewhere you could keep an eye on things. It took me a couple of days, but I searched around and this is the best place to be if you were trying to do surveillance. You can see my apartment and the door to my building from this roof.” She shrugs. “I thought I’d seen something - “

 

“You thought you saw something, yeah? And you just decided to come up and check it out? What if it wasn’t me, huh?” The thought of her coming up here and meeting somebody who meant her harm makes a wave of heat flare up inside, curl in the space behind his eyes.

 

“I knew it was you.” She sounds subdued - but still stubborn as hell.

 

He lets out a breath and presses the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose. “And how the fuck did you know it was me?”

 

“Would you believe I just knew?  Or a lucky guess maybe?” He scowls and sips his coffee. She laughs. It makes her hair, pulled up into a high ponytail, swing like a pendulum across her shoulders. “Okay, fine, I admit it. It was a… A friend. Called me and told me you were hanging around.”

 

“Red.” He breathes out through his nose. “The Devil.”

 

“Yeah, that’s right.” She stands up and looks down at him, holding his gaze for a beat longer than he’s comfortable with. She gives him a tight smile. “Enjoy the coffee, Frank. Going to be out here all night?”

 

“Uh… No,” he says. He wipes his mouth but there’s a bitter taste that doesn’t leave. “No. There’s no need for me to be here watching out for you if you got Red on your shoulder.”  

 

“I guess.” She shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest, tucking her hands into the crooks of her elbows. There’s a long, pregnant pause, the air thick between them. He wonders if she’s going to leave or if she’s going to finish whatever thought it is, hanging there on the tip of the tongue.  She lowers her head and covers her mouth with her hand.  He can’t see her face and he starts to rev up into worry until he hears her snort.  It’s a childish, undignified sound, and when he clears his throat, she looks up, holding back giggles with her knuckles pressed against her lips.  “If you have a devil on one shoulder, you need an angel on the other.”

 

She laughs like a bell, and it resonates, rich and warm, in the hollow of his chest.  He turns so he’s fully facing her and he stares her down, cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.  “Ma’am.”

 

Her laughter doubles at that, and she holds her stomach, bent over cackling.

 

“I’m no angel,” he says, pitching his voice low and rough.  Irritation burns like an itch under his skin and heat pools at the back of his neck.

 

“You can’t intimidate me like that, Frank, so don’t even try.” The humor drains from her voice and she stands still beside him, searching for something in him he’s not sure she can find. “And you might not be an angel, but. They were warriors of God, you know? Messengers. You definitely know how to send a message.”

 

“Go home, Miss Page,” he says, brushing off what she’d said. “Thanks for the coffee. Much better than the swill I brought.” He knocks a hand against his thermos.

 

“And if I - “

 

“Go home,” he says again, cutting her off. The coffee she brought him is hot and dark and she watches as he takes a long drink. His nose crinkles and he licks his lips. “I’ll stay here until you’re back. Yeah. Then I’ll leave, too.”

 

“Okay.” She frowns and looks down at the ground beside him. That restlessness he felt has hardened into something that falls to the pit of his stomach. When he tries to put a name to it the only one that comes to mind is hers. “Have a good night.”

 

He nods and makes a gruff noise of assent in his throat. She leaves and he sits, unmoving, until he sees her through her window. She holds up one arm, one delicate, long-fingered hand and gives him a small wave. He doesn’t wave back and she stands there in her small apartment looking out at him and the city.

 

She stands there, for a long time, and Frank doesn’t move until she does.

 

* * *

 

 

He watches her now more than ever, just to check in. She can take care of herself, smart enough to get out of situations before they go south. She’s kept her head down, staying away from Red, from _him_ , and what she’s been reporting hasn’t been big enough to make any waves. Nothing’s happened since the break-in, either.

 

She’s safe, and he knows she’s safe, so there’s no excuse he can give for why he finds himself on that rooftop again, checking for other assholes watching her. Maybe, a traitorous voice suggests, he just wants to see her. She passes by the window, her cell phone against her ear and Frank feels a pressure inside his chest ease. No, he thinks as he climbs down, that’s bullshit. He doesn’t need to see her. She’s safe and that’s as far as his care should go. So he doesn’t look at her or her window again, keeps his back to her building as he walks away.

 

But he’s back two nights later, just for five minutes, and then for half an hour three nights after that. He means to leave quickly that night, to drop by only for a moment, but the sight of her stops him. She has her hair pulled back right on the crown of her head and she’s dressed in gym clothes. She’s moving, punching the air in a rhythmic, choreographed way. Probably a work out. She moves faster, putting more and more force behind each jab, until she burns out and folds over with exertion. She peels off the tank she is wearing and throws it on the floor. She’s pale, her arms long and thin. She looks paler wearing a dark sports bra, and she seems more vulnerable somehow. She isn’t, and he knows she isn’t, but as she crumples to the floor he feels a twinge of something that tastes too close to sympathy.

 

She wipes her face and gets up again after a moment and Frank, after another minute of watching her, leaves.

 

And he tries to forget.

 

A week later he hears some noise about some of the last remnants of a gang he’d taken down.  

 

He goes to investigate, maybe have a nice friendly chat. He finds he’s a little less inclined to talk when he gets to them, and five men wind up dead. Most don’t have time to fire, but one of them grazes him completely by chance. It’s not bad, just a nick through his coat on the meat of his arm, but it makes him angry, leaves his jaw tight and the thrum of something dark and heavy churning in his gut.

 

He winds up back at the dump he’s been holing up in, cleaning the blood off and disinfecting the small wound. He’s more upset that it tore his coat than anything else - but if he can stitch up skin he can stitch up cloth, too.

 

The thrum of adrenaline starts to fade and the weight of being awake over thirty hours hits him. The sun will rise soon and there’s not much he can accomplish during the day. He cleans his guns, does his nightly work out, and then after a quick scrub down and a protein shake he sinks into his makeshift mattress and tries to get some sleep.

 

He’s not so exhausted yet that his mind blanks, and before he can stop himself he thinks of his family. Pain shoots through him like a goddamn bullet. _I miss them_ , he thinks, and it’s more like a confession than he wants it to be. He doesn’t force it back, though - it is easier to think about them now than it was when the wound was new. It will always stay fresh, he’ll always feel where that part of him was torn off, like a phantom limb, but he is learning that reliving the good memories, remembering he has them at all, helps with the times when he wants to tear his other limbs off, when he wants to make his body hurt like he does inside - when he wants to make the _world_ hurt like he does. His throat constricts as he thinks about them, as he lets himself be grateful he had them at all: Lisa’s easy smile, the long soft hair same as Maria’s, Frank Jr.’s dark, solemn eyes and the laugh that always seemed too big for his mouth. They were such good kids - he and Maria had been lucky as hell. Something burns in his eyes, his throat, and something in his chest rattles against its cage.

 

Anger’s pushing up, overtaking the exhaustion, overtaking the few calm moments he’d had basking in the memory of his former life. Anger is better than pain. The rage is what keeps him going now. His war is all he has, his war and his new identity. He has his dog tags still, got them back after the arrest and escape from prison, but he doesn’t wear them anymore. They belonged to Frank Castle, not The Punisher.

 

He lays with his eyes open, puffing labored breaths through his nose. Pointless, he thinks, to try to sleep now. So he gets up, puts on some nondescript civilian clothes, and goes out to find coffee.

 

He realizes, as he is about to order, that there is one other thing he has besides his grief and his anger and his never-ending war. That there is something that helps him remember, that reminds him who he used to be. He orders a second cup to go. There’s a pen sitting on the counter and he takes it, writes “Page” on the side in big, blocky letters. It’s easy to get into her building and he strides purposefully up to her door. He sets the coffee down at his feet and raps twice on the door with a fist. He leaves before she answers, the warmth from the cup still sunk into the palm of his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

It just makes sense, after that, to check in on her even when he doesn’t have a pressing reason.

 

* * *

 

 

He might as well keep a tent and bedroll on the roof for all the time he spends there, he thinks. Miss Page had Nelson and Murdock over for dinner - a tense, awkward dinner judging by what he saw, but she seemed happy when they left. She must also know by now that he’s there. Red wouldn’t have been able to see him, obviously, but he could hear better than any man Frank had ever met.

 

If she knows he’s there, she gives no indication of it. She cleans up dinner and turns off her big light. It’s darker now, lit by a bright lamp, and her apartment is painted a dim gold.

 

She starts to unbutton her shirt. Frank swallows, looks away, grips the handle of the knife on his belt. It doesn’t help steady him like he wants it to. He looks back and she’s pulling her shirttail out of her skirt, undoing the last button. Her hair falls over her shoulders and she brushes it back with a hand, lets her shirt slide down her arms. Her eyes are closed, he thinks, and her breasts are covered with soft triangles of pale green, edged with scallops of lace. Her head tilts and she puts a hand to her throat, staring out unseeing into the nightscape of the city. He looks away again, bites off a curse. The light stays on for awhile but he doesn’t look back until her window goes dark.

 

That night is his last peaceful night for awhile.

 

He has been keeping his head down, and there are some people who think he’s dead. Some of his kills have been attributed to copycats. He’s faded from the public eye, which is how he prefers it. It makes it easier.  The enemy may be less specific now, but he is just as merciless. He shoots a mugger attacking a young woman in an alley. She covers her mouth when she sees him and sinks down to the ground in fear, her legs shaking so hard she can’t stand. He doesn’t offer her any help, just kicks the corpse away from her.

 

He’s become something of a bogeyman. Some small time gang - he doesn’t even know which fucking one, the boys who come after him are so green - sends young, easily controlled men after him. He kills the ones who look at him hungry, with angry eyes who have something to prove. One night ten boys who look only a few years out of high school try to surround him. He’s got fucking body armor on and they have maybe a half dozen guns between them. They look gangly, ill-fed, some of them high. He shoots the one who looks in charge without preamble. Two run away and two more take shots at him. One hits his own goddamn man in the shoulder. Blood blossoms from the wound and the boy screams, sinking down to the ground. He’s crying and Frank hears him muttering “ _oh shit, oh shit”_ under his breath.

 

That rattles the others, and one charges at Frank, bellowing as his fist draws back and he barrels forward.

 

Frank grabs the boy’s arm as soon as he can reach it, and yanks him around until he’s got him in a choke hold.

 

“Fuck you,” he says, grappling at Frank’s bicep with trembling hands. “Let me go!”

 

“Drop the guns,” he barks. “And then get the hell away. If you do not, I will kill you.”

 

“Thought you only killed people who deserved it,” one said.

 

Frank gestures with his gun to the boy beside him. “This piece of shit shot one of your own people here. He doesn’t deserve it?”

 

“It was an accident!” He shouts, spit flying from a bloody lip. “I didn’t mean… You just fucking shot Marshall and I… I wanted to shoot you, asshole!”

 

“Drop your guns,” Frank says again. “Because this is me asking nicely. I don’t think you want to see me get firm.”

 

They all do after another moment of hesitation. Frank drags the boy he’s got his arm around with him and picks up the five guns they’d put on the ground. He looks over to the injured man - his face is pale and snotty and he’s losing blood. The wound shouldn’t be fatal, but he’ll need medical attention soon. He lets the punk he had by the neck go and gives them all a last squinty-eyed glare.

 

“Get the fuck away from here,” he says. “I don’t want to see any of you again.”

 

He walks away to the faint sound of sirens, feeling optimistic about the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Don’t mess with kids or dogs.

 

That’s a simple fucking rule, but it’s like every lowlife piece of garbage left in New York wants to break it.

 

The men who’d been keeping the dogs are dead, in a mangled pile at his feet, but his ankle’s probably broken and he needs something to do for the dogs. There are six of them and they look terrible, beat up and malnourished, used for fighting. He doesn’t know the number for any kind of animal rescue and he doesn’t trust the police to properly rehabilitate the dogs. Besides which, calling them would run too big a risk of getting caught. He grunts and pulls out the burner phone he’d grabbed for emergencies. As long as she hadn’t changed it, he still had Karen Page’s number from his trial. He dials and waits.

 

“Hello?” she says, half a question. “This is Karen Page.”

 

It’s been weeks since they’ve spoken and his voice sticks in his throat. “Ma’am.” He hears her quiet gasp and knows she’s recognized him. “You work at the Bulletin, yeah? This is an anonymous source.” He pauses, wets his lips. “Got a tip for you.”

 

“Oh?” She sounds wary, but he’d bet money she’s curious too.

 

“Yeah. It’s, uh. Dog fighting ring. The people running it won’t be doing it anymore, but - “

 

She cuts him off.  “Because they aren’t breathing anymore.”

 

Neither speaks.

 

“Yeah,” he tells her, the phone clenched tight in sweaty fingers. “They’re not breathing anymore. They didn’t need to be breathing anymore, not when they do shit like this.”

 

“Was it the Punisher?” She asks. Her voice is all breath, quiet and wavering, and it makes his pulse bump faster in his throat.

 

His mouth goes dry. “Think so,” he says. “Looks like his work. One shot kills. All victims were assholes the world is better off without. So they can’t hurt anyone again.”

 

He listens to her breathe for a moment and then she says “Why are you telling me?”

 

“Because of the dogs. I don’t have a place to keep them and i’m not trained to fix them anyway, they need real vets.”

 

“Okay, I understand, but what can I - “

 

“I can’t call the goddamn police, can I?” He needs to do something about his ankle and he’s tired from another sleepless night and he needs her to understand. “You can make sure the dogs go somewhere that’ll actually help them and if you want to go to the police about the bodies after you can. Hell, if you want to tell them everything, how you know about this, tell them who called and why, I don’t - “

 

“I don’t know who this is,” she says quickly. “You never gave me a name. I’m not going to. Uh.” She swallows audibly. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

 

He wonders why she says anyone and not just the police. Why she wants him to know she’ll keep his secrets.

 

“Karen,” he says, and the shape of her name doesn’t fit his mouth. “Ma’am. My ankle is fucked up and I need to get out of here - “

 

“I’ll help. What’s the address?”

 

He breaths out and tells her.

 

There’s a small piece in the paper about it a few days later, no mention of the Punisher or an anonymous phone call to Karen Page. But the dogs are safe, she tells him through text message. He almost regrets calling her - now that she has his number, temporary as it is, it’s more difficult to maintain a distance. He answers when she calls even though he fucking knows he shouldn’t. She tells him she put him in her phone as St. Francis because of the dogs, and then she invites him over for dinner.

 

“No,” he says. He clears his throat. “I, uh. Don’t think so.”

 

“Oh.” Her voice is flat, as emotionless as she can make it, but he still hears disappointment. “You can’t be out exacting justice all the time. What do you do in your free time that keeps you too busy for social calls?”

 

His grip on the phone tightens, and he wants to tell her how dangerous it is to know him, how she was right to be so hostile when he showed up to pin that note to her door. They’re not _friends_ and he’s not Red. “Just got a new pull-up bar,” he says, lightly, knowing it will probably piss her off. “Keeps me pretty busy.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. Next part up very soon. I will go ahead and tell you - don't read this next sentence if you don't want ~fic spoilers~ I guess - that I literally started this fic out with no idea other than "Hey, Karen in lingerie. That should be a thing. Her having sex with Frank should also be a thing." It was [L'agent](http://www.lagentbyap.com/) fic in my drafts for a really long time because it was seriously just going to be consensual voyeurism leading up to lingerie!kink sex. But instead I decided to try writing from Frank's POV and somehow, because I am a pretentious jerkface probably, the eventual undressing sort of became a metaphor for "seeing underneath" and all that nonsense without that ever actually being my intention. It's not even a big part of the story anymore, I just point it out because seriously, these were my story notes:
> 
> "Okay so this is a super dumb thing where Karen finds out Frank is watching over her and she stands in front of her window in her underwear so he can see, and then they have sex and she’s wearing something super sexy and fancy and Frank doesn’t know how to work it or he’s just totally floored by her or something. AKA a very serious fic"
> 
> Curse you, myself, for needing porn WITH plot! Even though there's almost no plot! And it was a tough balance because in no way does this suddenly... fix him or anything, but there's a thing in the next chapter that kind of addresses this, because he's like "Hey I'm not Frank Castle anymore" and Karen's like "I never knew who you were before, I only met you after you got fucked up and I kind of like that guy" and blah blah blah sex, et cetera, you get the idea. Maybe I should just let you read that... when I post it... I have SO MANY stupid notes for this about why I did things or what found its way in here, but I will spare you all my blabbering because hopefully I wrote the story so that nothing really needs explaining. I JUST LOVE THESE TWO A LOT, OKAY. UGH. And I have written and erased literally three paragraphs of my feels and why I wrote things the way I did, so I am shutting up now before I start rambling again.
> 
> Gosh. I would super love feedback, beautiful friends, should anyone care to leave it! 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://librarian-repellent.tumblr.com) if you ever want to talk about Karen Page or leave fic prompts or yell at me on another website!


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